


La Vie En Rose

by rahleeyah



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-31 03:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: AU. After the war, Lucien Blake is sent to Paris to gather intelligence for his country. Alone and reeling from his own losses, Lucien crosses paths with a beautiful dancer who might just give him cause to hope as Christmas approaches in the city of lights.





	1. Chapter 1

_23 December 1946_

Snow was falling in Paris. As he made his way through the streets Lucien Blake could not stop himself from raising his face towards the steel-grey sky, smiling like a school boy as the snowflakes melted on his face and beard, cold and soft as kisses. He was the only one who seemed enamored with the snow; his fellow pedestrians walked with their chins tucked in their coats and their parcels clutched tight to their chests. The war was long over, now, but signs of devastation lingered all around the city; the hollowed out factories stood silent and still, the rationing - of bread, coffee, sugar and the like - continued, and the communists whispered in the shadows. This had once been Lucien's favorite city on earth, and he was certain that it would be again, with time, but for now it was a grey place, a cold place, and a hard one. After everything this city and its people had endured Lucien could not blame them for their flinty-eyed stares and their closed lips, wrapped tight around the ends of contraband cigarettes. The war had changed him, too.

The hardening of Lucien Blake's heart had begun in Singapore, when word reached him that the ship bearing his wife and daughter had sunk, that Mei Lin was gone and Li had been spirited away to an orphanage deep in the Chinese countryside. Lucien had been promptly captured by the Japanese, left to languish under insufferable conditions in a POW camp for three long years, and by the time he was liberated he found the war over, and China closed to white men eager to reclaim their children. He was doing what he could, appealing to friends in government to speak on his behalf, begging everyone he could for aid, but the country remained closed to him, and Li remained just out of his reach.  _Another six months, Lucien,_ Derek kept telling him. It had already been a year.

To keep himself from going mad with grief while he waited for the chance to hold his daughter in his arms once more Lucien continued to serve his country, in  _administration,_ and to that end he had been sent to Paris. The first election following the end of the occupation had resulted in massive gains for the communist party, and likewise expats from all over the world - Korea and French Indochina, most alarmingly - gathered there, whispering together in dark corners about a new world order. Lucien had been sent to eavesdrop on those whispers in the interest of his country; as the world recovered from the havoc wrought by fascism, the next wave of dangerous ideology had reared its head in the east, and Lucien knew that for all their rhetoric about peace the British Empire and their Allies in France and the United States were ready and willing to fight tooth and nail to retain the status quo and defeat the encroaching red wave in Asia, whatever the cost. Unbeknownst to his superiors Lucien found that his personal politics aligned more closely with the communist agitators than with his own government, but he resented any social or political movement which required absolute dedication from its adherents and subjects. That was how he justified the spying to himself; he did not fall firmly into either camp, and if by relaying information from one to the other he might somehow create a sort of balance, then he would count himself successful indeed.

To that end he made his way along the river, heading for a run-down, abandoned opera house that languished empty and unused following the occupation. There were pigeons roosting in the empty window frames where the glass had been shattered by the shelling of the German invaders, and a makeshift door made of half-rotten plywood barred entry, held in place by a heavy chain and padlock. It was no difficult thing to sneak into the building, however, for the bombs had also ruined some of the brickwork around the back, and a hole remained just large enough for a man to slip through, his progress hidden from view as only the most nefarious of passers-by used this alley way. The opera house had been grand and beautiful once, soaring like a cathedral by the river, but now it was only a ghost of its former self, and no music played in its grand hall to entertain finely dressed patrons of an evening. It was a rather depressing place to be, with Christmas approaching and his daughter thousands of miles from his side, but Lucien had arranged to meet with a representative of the Viet Minh, the communist party under Ho Chi Minh who had declared the independence of Vietnam from the French colonizers. Paris was a dangerous place for such a man to be, as the French gathered their strength to subdue the uprising in what they still firmly referred to as French Indochina, but Lucien's contact was desperately trying to drum up support from the French communists, in the hopes that their shared ideology might carry more weight than their nationalist loyalties. Lucien lied through his teeth, told the man that he was sympathetic, and prepared himself to do whatever it took to gain as much intelligence from his informer as he could while also keeping the man alive. England and France might have preferred Lucien to slide a knife between his ribs, but Major Blake was in his heart a doctor first and foremost, and he took the obligation  _Primum non nocere_ more seriously than any oath he had made to King and country.

As he made his way through the dusty back corridor of the opera house there was no sound, no movement, only the weight of memories heavy upon his shoulders. This place had been a temple dedicated to beauty once, but now it stood forlorn as a crumbling tomb, preternaturally still while every inch of its once grand facade whispered with the voices of thousands of ghosts. The world had changed, irreversibly, and the opera house had been left behind.

Lucien's assignation was set for the balcony of the main hall, and his steps took him along the mouldering carpet without any direction from his distracted mind. They had met here before several times, Lucien and his Asian informer, and given that neither of them had been waylaid so far he was fairly comfortable with their routine. As comfortable as he could be; in the intelligence gathering business, routine was often dangerous, but his mark was jittery and did not respond well to sudden changes in plan. Up the stairs he went, trailing his fingertips along the worn wooden railing, listening to the sighing of the opera house around him, his ears trained for the slightest sound, his eyes darting round him constantly, wary and watchful.

In a moment he emerged onto the balcony, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. There was no sign of his contact, but the reason for the man's absence was made abundantly clear as Lucien stepped up to the railing. The hall was not empty.

There on the stage, with no lights, no music, the beautiful red velvet curtain hanging in tatters and the luxurious boards worn in places by time and the passage of German bootheels, a single woman was dancing, alone and graceful, the sight of her so lovely and so sad that Lucien collapsed at once into the nearest seat, covering his mouth with his hand as he watched her in awe and silent wonder.

The dancer was too far away for him to make out many details, but he could see enough. She was dressed in close-fitting trousers and a lightweight linen blouse, her dark hair a tumble of elegant curls. Her face was hidden from him, but the line of her body, the lift of her arms, the strength of the toned muscles in her calves that lifted her effortlessly onto her toes called out to him. Though only she could hear the beat that kept her twirling there upon the empty stage the lithe and enchanting movements of her fragile frame spoke to him of loss, of grief, of the enduring resilience of the human heart; she was far too thin and performing for an empty theater, and yet still, she danced. What could have inspired her to do such a thing, Lucien asked himself; what force could have called a woman who had starved and languished under a violent occupation to now, in this moment of uncertain peace, this moment when deprivation and despair still reigned in the most beautiful city on earth, cast aside the shackles of her heartache and dance?

Once more she twirled, one pirouette swirling exquisitely into another, and Lucien watched her, spellbound and enraptured. It was four years since he'd lost his wife, one year and several months since he had been freed from the camp, and for the first time in a very long while he had looked upon a woman, and found his heart full of yearning. Yes, she was beautiful, lovely as a dream, but it was more than that; her actions spoke of a spirit that could not be broken, a strength that called to him.

But in the next moment she stumbled, her ankle giving way beneath her, and she collapsed helplessly upon the stage. Though he was too far away to reach her Lucien lept to his feet anyway, as if there was some way he might be able to help her, to save her, but any intentions he may have harbored of calling out to her, of offering her aid, were dispelled in a moment as he watched her bury her face in her hands, as the gentle sound of her weeping wafted up to him. The dream of beauty she had painted there upon the stage faded beneath the dark reality of their world, and Lucien bowed his head and slipped away, leaving the dancer alone with her grief. She did not leave him quite so easily, however, for throughout the rest of that day and the long hours of the night she haunted him, spinning round and round in his mind. Who was she? Why was she there? Would she ever be happy again? Lucien could not say, but he brooded on those questions nonetheless.


	2. Chapter 2

_24 December 1946_

The answer to his questions arrived the following morning, when Lucien made his way to the local  _pâtisserie_  in search of a treat for his breakfast. Given the shortages and rationing still in effect there had been a change in the usual order of things at the  _pâtisserie;_ it had become more like a café, serving tea and heartier fare, though pastries were still available for those willing to pay the exorbitant cost. He ordered his tea and his breakfast and then made his way to a little table by the window, thinking hard on how best to approach his contact to arrange another meeting. The man would likely be skittish, now that they knew their accustomed meeting place was not as deserted as they previously believed it to be, and alternate arrangements would need to be made. Lucien was not so engrossed in his thoughts that he ignored his fellow patrons, however, and as he watched them trailing in and out of the  _pâtisserie_ one woman in particular caught his eye.

At first glance she was not terribly remarkable, her eyes downcast, her clothes drab and dark and designed more for protection from the cold than for aesthetics, but the curl of her hair, the curve of her cheek spoke to him, and as he watched her it began to dawn on him that this feeling of familiarity was not entirely misplaced. She reached out one delicate hand to accept her tea, and in the movement of her arm and the soft sound of her murmuring her thanks to the man behind the counter Lucien saw the silhouette of the dancer who had so ensnared him the day before.

The woman chose a table near his own, settling down alone with her gaze fixed firmly on her teacup, and Lucien watched her with his heart in his throat. He did not patronize the  _pâtisserie_  every day, and his work often took him far afield from this place; it was not so very strange, that he had never seen her before. What was strange, to his mind, was that he should see her twice in rapid succession, and though he had long since abandoned any deference to religion or to god his childhood superstitions still held him in thrall, and he could not help but think that they had crossed paths for a reason. What would be the harm, he asked himself, in speaking to her? At the worst she would rebuff him and he would leave, content in the knowledge that their crossing paths had been no more than coincidence. At best, she might give him a reason to smile again.

And so he gathered the last of his courage and his teacup and rose to his feet, making his way across the crowded room to her side. An employee of the  _pâtisserie_ whisked away his empty plate and a new patron laid claim to his vacated table at once, and thus cut off from any opportunity to return to his prior place he squared his shoulders, and approached her table.

" _Bonjour, madame,"_ he said softly, not wanting to startle her too badly if he could help it.

The woman did not jump in her seat; she simply lifted her head sharply, and Lucien was forced to draw in a ragged breath at the sight of her face at such close range. Her grey eyes were bright and fierce, her features fine and lovely, her mouth set in a thin line though there were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that whispered to him of a thousand brilliant smiles.

"May I sit?" he asked, gesturing towards the empty seat at her table. The woman cast her eyes about the room quickly, taking in the lack of available tables before she sighed and waved her hand.

"Of course," she answered him.

Their conversation - such as it was - had so far been undertaken in French. The language was as familiar to Lucien as any other, given that he had been raised by his Parisian mother, speaking French with her more often than not. It was a beautiful language, and a soft one, but Lucien had an ear for accents, and though the woman had spoken but little in her voice he heard an intonation that was not native to France.

"Thank you," he replied softly, folding himself into the seat across from her. For a moment he sat silent, wondering how best to ask the thousands of questions that swirled through his mind while his companion remained still as a stone, staring at her tea. He did not want to frighten her, but he found in that moment he wanted to know absolutely everything about her.

"Have I seen you before?" he began, trying to ease into his inquiries.

The woman gave him a wry sort of look; she stopped just short of rolling her eyes, but he could tell that she was unimpressed by his attempt at civility.

"Do you say that to all the girls?" she fired back.

Lucien smiled at her; he couldn't help it. She looked to be a few years younger than him, just past thirty, but the war had made old souls of them all, and there was a transcendent sort of quality about her that defied all attempts at classification.

"Only the beautiful ones," he answered before he could stop himself. Her cheeks colored slightly but she gave no other indication of having been moved by his flattery, and so Lucien took a deep breath, and tried again. "But I think I have seen you before," he insisted. "At the opera house?"

This time the woman did jump, just a little, making as if to rise to her feet and flee, and Lucien reached out his hand, not quite touching her, his palm hovering over her forearm, desperate to keep her with him.

"Please," he begged her. "I meant no offense. You danced so beautifully."

"No one was meant to see," she confessed ruefully, as - to Lucien's delight - she settled herself more firmly in her seat.

"Then why did you do it?" That question had plagued him from the moment he first saw her, and he was determined to have his answer.

The woman smiled at him sadly. "The opera house is mine," she told him. "I owned it with my husband, before the war. I was the  _prima ballerina,_ long ago."

There was a sorrow in her eyes that spoke to Lucien's very soul; he knew what it was, to lament for the person he had been, for the life he had known before the war ruined him.

"And then the war came," she sighed, dismissing that horror with the wave of an elegant hand. "The German bombs ruined the opera house, and then they killed my husband. I can't afford to rebuild, and no one wants to buy it. But it's mine, still."

The way she pronounced the word  _mine_  told Lucien exactly why she'd done it; this woman who had known such grief had danced upon that stage with no one but phantoms for an audience as an act of reclamation, casting her defiance into the teeth of the world that sought to bring her low, creating a thing of beauty for its own sake. She would never be a  _prima ballerina_  again; starvation and the cruel passage of time had done its work and no doubt left her body indelibly changed, and even as he looked at her Lucien saw the bitterness of that loss etched into the lines of her glorious face, but still, she danced, and in that moment, though he did not even know her name, Lucien loved her for it.

"Why were you there?" she asked him curiously, lifting her teacup to her lips and watching him carefully over its rim. Lucien ran a nervous hand over the back of his head, smoothing down his hair and buying himself a moment to think.

"It's a beautiful building," he lied. "I wanted to see what it looked like inside."

She hummed, clearly not believing a word he'd said, and fired off another question before he could find his feet.

"Your accent," she said. "You're not French, are you?"

"Neither are you," he answered her, smiling.

She blushed. "No," she agreed. "I'm Australian. I came here when I was young, to dance."

Lucien stared at her for a moment, utterly shocked by her words. What were the chances, he asked himself, of finding such a kindred spirit in this dismal place?

"I'm Australian," he said in surprise, switching to English at once. The woman's eyes went wide, no doubt as surprised as he to find herself faced with one of her countrymen while she enjoyed her breakfast.

"Where?" she demanded at once, offering no further explanation of her request, for in truth none was needed. That was the way of things among the expats in Paris; the moment they discovered one another immediately they began to ferret out any connection they might share, hungry for news of home.

"Ballarat," he admitted. "Though I haven't been there for many years."

A sudden, unexpected sheen of tears filled the woman's eyes and she lifted a single hand to her mouth, pulling herself together before she spoke again while Lucien watched her with a hunger in his heart, desperate to know more, to know everything about her.

When at last it seemed she trusted herself to speak the woman drew in a deep breath, and told him with a tragic longing in her tone, "I was born in Ballarat."

Lucien made a disbelieving sort of sound, staring at her in wonder. Though Ballarat was not a particularly large town the woman seemed a few years younger than he, and it stood to reason that he did not recognize her; he would have been shipped off to boarding school while she was still quite young, and they would not have moved in the same circles, would not have known the same people. What were the chances, he wondered, of them having never seen one another back home, and yet having stumbled together here in Paris?

"Well," he said, somewhat lamely, "how about that?"

The woman laughed, a choked, relieved sort of sound, and extended her hand to him.

"Jean Beazely," she said as he took her hand in his own, shook it gently, felt the axis of the world shift beneath his feet as the skin of his palm came into contact with hers.

"Lucien Blake," he answered her. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

They spent the rest of the morning in desultory conversation, lingering together long after they had both finished their tea. Jean, he discovered, was witty and clever, and every inch as lovely as his first impression of her had made her out to be. She worked as a housekeeper for a prominent local family, but she had been allowed a few days' leave from work as the family had traveled to the countryside to stay with friends. Back in Ballarat she had known Lucien's father, and was still in regular correspondence with her sister, who filled her in on all the local goings on and had actually mentioned Thomas Blake by name in her previous letter. This was the first word of his father that Lucien had received for many years, and he was grateful for it, though he still harbored a significant grudge against the man for the way he had been mistreated in his youth.

When at last they could had run out of excuses to linger over empty cups of tea Lucien had impulsively suggested a walk along the  _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_ and Jean had readily agreed. Perhaps it should have been strange, the way they so easily took to one another, but their shared origins and the unspoken weight of their mutual grief had bound them together the moment they met, and Lucien was loath to let her go. Though it was not in his nature - and was in fact quite detrimental to his work - to share his own history with another, Lucien rather felt he owed it to Jean to be forthright about himself and his past, given the way she had so readily shared the truth of her own heartbreak with him.

As they walked along the conversation slowed, and Lucien took a deep breath.

"I lost my wife, during the war," he told her.

They were walking very close together; nothing would have given him more joy in that moment than for Jean to take his arm, to slip in close beside him and share her warmth with him, but she remained apart from him in deference to the brevity of their acquaintance. At his words she sucked in a sharp breath, however, her hand twitching by her side as if she meant to reach out to him but thought better of it at the last moment. Lucien gave thanks for this small mercy and pressed ahead with his sorry tale.

"I was stationed in Singapore, and when it became clear that the Japanese invasion was imminent I put my wife and daughter on a ship to take them to safety. The ship sank, and my wife was killed, and my daughter was taken in by the Chinese."

"Oh,  _Lucien,"_  Jean sighed sadly, and this time she did not let propriety restrain her; she wrapped her hand around his forearm, and drew them both to a halt there on the pavement.

"I have friends who are trying to help me bring her home," he explained, his eyes searching Jean's face, his heart reassured by the depth of compassion he found there. "But it has been such a long time."

It was snowing again; Jean reached up with a fond hand and brushed the flakes from his hair with an unreadable expression on her face before she blushed scarlet at her own familiarity and turned away, leading them both once more along the road.

"My Christopher wanted children," she told him as the walked, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her thoughts no doubt lost in foggy memories. "It would have meant the end of my career, though. We rowed about it, I don't even know how many times. In the end we agreed that we would wait another year, and then the Germans came. They shot him in the street for being a conspirator. At first I was heartbroken that I'd never had his children, that I'd never done that for him, that I'd never get the chance to, but then I realized it was a blessing. The occupation…" her voice trailed off, but Lucien did not need to press her for more; he knew how that sentence was meant to end.  _No child should have to endure such horror._

Jean had let go of him while they walked, and now it was Lucien's turn to reach out to her, to offer her what comfort he could, and so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she went with him at once, nestling against him and sighing again, a bone-deep sort of sorrow bubbling up out of her as they meandered through the quiet city streets. There was a familiarity to this, to the warmth and softness of her in his arms, and in that moment, Lucien never wanted to let her go.

* * *

"Thank you, Lucien," she told him earnestly as the sun began to sink below the horizon, as their aching feet led them along the path back to the quarter of the city where he'd first discovered her. "This has been a wonderful day."

And truly it had; most of the city was closed up in deference to the looming holiday, but they had walked past all the fabled monuments of the city, had shared a quiet lunch together in front of a stall selling cheese and the last of the withered autumn apples, had spoken to one another earnestly of themselves and their dreams. His suppositions had been correct; when pressed Jean confessed that after the occupation she lacked the strength that had made her a star of the ballet in her youth, that the trembling of her overexerted muscles beneath her had caused her fall while Lucien watched with his heart in his throat the day before, that she had crumpled there upon the stage and wept to think she would never again be able to dance the way she had done, before, had wept to think of how grim her life had become without the bright lights and music that had so defined her before grief came knocking on her door.

In turn Lucien had spoken to her of his own loss, the way his hands trembled too severely for him to return to surgery, the way he had been pressed once more into service as a soldier following his release from the camp, though he did not explain his business in the city. To her credit Jean had not pressed him for details on the mission that had brought an Australian soldier to this place, but Lucien supposed that had more to do with her distaste for anything even remotely militaristic in nature than with any sort of prudence she might have felt. She did not ask what had befallen him while he'd been held captive, though there was a darkness in her eyes that told him she knew enough to guess how traumatic that internment had been. That was the thing about Jean, he'd realized over the course of their day together; those fierce grey eyes saw everything, analyzed the world around her in a way that Lucien admired, and she stored that knowledge away, not judging those around her but still using her intelligence to guard her heart. She was quite the most fascinating woman he'd ever met, and he could not bear the thought of being parted from her.

Their steps had taken them back to the opera house, and they stood for a moment staring up at it in silence, Jean remembering and lamenting for the glory that now lay in ruins, Lucien watching her and thinking only how lovely she was. The time had come for them to part ways, he knew, but Lucien cast about desperately for something to say, some way to keep her close, just a little while longer.

"Will you give me a tour?" he asked her suddenly, faltering somewhat under her uncertain gaze. Lucien was well aware that he had just asked a woman he'd met only that morning to walk with him through an abandoned building as night fell all around them, and he was likewise aware that the survival instinct that had kept Jean alive through all the long years of the German occupation was likely shrieking at her now, telling her to turn tail and run, but he prayed that she would not. In that moment the unbeliever prayed most fervently that Jean would acquiesce, and walk with him through the dusty corridors of her dreams, that they might somehow find a way to solidify the tenuous connection that had only just begun to form between them.

For a single moment they remained suspended, perched dangerously atop a crumbling precipice. Lucien was a spy and a soldier in a foreign land, and Jean was a widow with no one to look after her, and though Lucien's intentions where she was concerned were nothing less than honorable the potential for disaster inherent in their continuing on in this fashion weighed heavily upon them. But it was the day before Christmas, and snow was falling in Paris, and there was no one around to see as Jean silently reached for his hand, and led him to the back of the opera house, to the same hidden fissure in the brick through which Lucien had slipped the day before.

"This way," she whispered, leading Lucien not to the familiar balcony but along a passageway that ran through the rear of the building, the thoroughfare through which the performers would have slipped in days gone by, hidden from the sight of their audience. Doors hung off their hinges to the left and right, leading to dressing rooms and more intimate performance spaces and empty costume closets, but Jean did not stop, did not spare a moment for those relics of her younger days. In silence she blazed a path through the opera house until at last they reached that tattered velvet curtain, and Jean lifted it aside with reverent hands while Lucien stepped by her to stand at last upon the stage.

The vast, cavernous hall was quite intimidating, when viewed from this perspective. Row after row of ornate seats led to the back of the house and up to the balcony, the gilded boxes for the wealthier patrons set at intervals along the gently sloping walls. It was all gold and wood and leather, fine and grand and terribly depressing. He tried to picture it as it would have been when Jean stood upon this stage in her youth, tried to picture her young and lovely and dressed in some fine soft costume, floating across the stage while the audience sighed and shifted and fell under her spell as Lucien himself had done.

"It's beautiful," he told his companion truthfully when she stepped up beside him.

Jean lifted her face towards the high arching ceiling, eyes closed as if she were warming herself in the light of a forgotten sun.

"This place was everything to me once," she confessed in a soft voice. "But now...I suppose if no one will buy it the city will want to knock it down. They keep talking about progress and forgetting our past."

"But we can't forget, can we, Jean?" he asked her quietly. There was something about this place, something rare and sanctified and glorious, that urged him to whisper, to not disturb the slumbering ghosts with a voice too loud or thoughtless. She looked at him, so soft and sad, and in that moment he knew what he had to do.

"Dance with me," he whispered, turning towards her and holding out his hand. "Life's too short not to."

And though there was no music Jean smiled at him, a true, brilliant, beguiling smile, and gave him her hand. With an exulting heart Lucien pulled her close, and they began to sway together, alone and unaccompanied on that beautiful stage, setting aside their troubles for a moment and allowing the peace and the bliss and the joy of understanding to soothe their bitter hearts. He had only known her a bare few hours, but she fit so beautifully within the circle of his arms, spoke to him so gently and with such a depth of compassion that he felt rather as if he had known her all his life, as if someone had looked into his heart and taken note of every quality a woman would need in order to enthrall him utterly, and mixed them all together and poured them into Jean. She was utterly and completely perfect, and she owned his very soul.

In the stillness Jean began to hum, softly, and the tempo of their movements slowed to match the pace of the song that began to spill from her. As they swayed together Lucien tightened his grip upon her, and she rested her head against his shoulder, apparently as content with their rapidly evolving situation as was he.


	3. Chapter 3

_24 December 1946_

It was foolish, Jean knew. It was beyond reckless, to lead a man she'd known for precisely one day through the dark streets and up the narrow staircase to the little flat she called home. It was wild, and dangerous, but she could not, would not stop, not now, not for anything.

Jean was not so naive as to believe that having entered her life so abruptly Lucien Blake would not depart again at the first possible opportunity, but her husband had been dead for six years, and she had been lonesome and homesick and desperate every day since. Her world was a dark place, now, drab and grey where before it had been full of light and life and possibility. Let him leave her in the morning then, she told herself, but first let him comfort her in the darkness, let her draw what measure of relief she could from the warmth of his strong arms around her.

She was likewise under no illusions as regarded whether or not he had told her the truth of himself; he had given her as much truth as he could, and she would content herself with it. Jean was well aware that old Doctor Blake had an irascible son named Lucien, and it was too much a coincidence for the man currently trailing up the stairs behind her to have plucked that name out of thin air. He may have lied about everything else, but that much she knew was true, and it was enough. Just for tonight, just for this moment, it was enough to know that she held a piece of home in her hands.

And a piece of beauty, too, for Lucien Blake was the handsomest man she had seen for quite some time, with his neatly trimmed beard and his broad shoulders and his gently rumbling voice. A handsome man who looked at her like every star in the galaxy was swirling beneath her pale skin, and her heart exulted in his obvious appreciation of her. The only art Jean encountered these days was in the fine paintings and sculptures that decorated her employer's home, but on this cold winter's night she was determined that - should Lucien be willing - they might between them make a thing of beauty all their own. She could resign herself to his leaving, could be honest enough to admit that she knew this soldier would not stay long by her side, but it was the impermanence of them, more than anything else, the knowledge that for some reason they had been brought together in a moment of lightning-strike coincidence, that encouraged her on. This man would not ask more of her than she was willing to give, this man still haunted by thoughts of his dead wife and missing child, and so Jean felt it would be safe enough to indulge for once in the quiet longings of her fragile heart.

He had woken that desire so gently, with the soothing sound of his voice, the strength of his hands, the way he had looked at her as they stood upon the ruins of the stage that had once been more her home than any other place in the world, when he had heard the quiet longing of her heat and invited her to dance. There were few things in life that had ever brought Jean such joy as dancing, and it had been so long, too long, since last she had shared that passion with another. He was hardly the smoothest or the most graceful partner she had ever twirled across that stage with, but he was perhaps the most earnest. He did not dance for the sake of applause or to bolster his pride, did not twirl her around that stage for any other reason than that he wa in that moment he wanted to hold her, and she had consented, and her heart had soared in her chest. Perhaps that, more than anything else, was the reason she had led him back to this place; he had looked at her, and understood her, and accepted her as no one else had done since before the war came, and she was so grateful, and so hungry, and he was so utterly lovely. Whatever came next between them would be an encounter of Jean's own making, a choice to take back control of her life when everything around her was a torrent of grey, horrible madness, and she reveled in it.

And in him;  _oh,_ but she reveled in him. The moment the door closed behind him she turned to him, intending to speak, to offer him a cup of weak tea, perhaps, but Lucien had other ideas. His arms snaked around her waist, hands clasped together at the small of her back, drawing her towards him so that their bodies were flush together. He bowed his head towards her, all want and parted lips, but he did not take that final step, lingering instead with his nose pressed to the curve of her cheek, his neat beard brushing gently against her tender skin, waiting for her, her admonition, her acceptance, whatever it was she would have of him. Jean drew in a single breath, sharp and sweet, and lifted her hand until her palm was flush to the side of his powerful neck, until she could feel the thundering of his pulse beneath his skin and trace the line of his jaw with her thumb. The moment was delicate, delicious, and over far too soon as the last tenuous threads of Jean's self control snapped, and she lifted her chin, her lips pressing against his once, softly.

It was all the encouragement that Lucien needed, for he let loose a soft, needy sort of sigh and then fell upon her with a ravenous sort of fury. In a moment Jean found her back flush against the wall, one of Lucien's hands sliding deftly beneath her coat to caress her back through her too-thin blouse while his other tangled in her hair, holding her in place while with lips and tongue and the insistent movement of his body he drew her down beneath the waves of their mutual longing for one another. Jean whimpered, just a little, and surged up towards him, her nails scraping lightly against the base of his neck, holding him to her, begging him for more, for everything. The touch of his hand had inspired a yearning in her she could not comprehend, a nostalgia for a place she had never been, a homesickness that could only be cured with more of him. Nothing else mattered, in that moment, not her bare cupboards, not the chill in her flat, not the hole in her stockings; all she knew, all she felt, all she could fathom was him, the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the way his tongue stroked against hers, eager and yet as full of lament as their gentle dance had been, as if he too had recognized the inevitable separation that loomed ahead of them and yet, like Jean, staunchly refused to acknowledge it.

" _Jean,"_ he whispered her name against her lips, resting his forehead against her own as he reached between them, deftly sliding her coat from her shoulders, allowing it to fall into an inelegant pile at their feet. He said her name like a prayer, and it had been so long,  _so long,_ since anyone had looked at her the way he did now, as if she were a goddess, as if she were now what she had been once, the  _prima ballerina,_ the envy of every girl and the desire of every man. One tear escaped her, and then another, and she pulled his face back to her, claimed his lips in a hungry kiss, half out of sheer want and half out of a desperate need to make him close his eyes, to hide the way her regret and her longing splashed against her cheeks. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth gently, ran the tip of her tongue along it and felt some of her grief recede at the sound he made. Her hands made quick work of his coat, and the moment it hit the floor she felt him grin against her lips. Before she could breathlessly ask what had suddenly delighted him so his broad hands smoothed down the slope of her back until they clutched her bum, lifting her up easily. A small, startled sound escaped her, but she wrapped her legs around his waist in a moment. It had been a long time since last she'd felt delicate, precious, treasured, but she felt it now, felt it in the way his arms held her firm, not trembling beneath her slight weight, felt it in the heat radiating out from his clear blue eyes, felt it in the brush of his lips against her neck.

For a moment he seemed hesitant to push things much further between them; they were standing alone in her flat in the dark of the night, their bodies wound tightly together, Jean clinging to him with everything she had, but still he seemed to be waiting for something, some sign from her that this - that  _he -_ was in fact what she wanted, and his hesitation only endeared him more to her. If he needed reassurance then she was resolved to give it to him, for she had decided the moment they stepped into her flat exactly what it was she wanted of him. It was Christmas, snow was falling, and Jean was in the arms of a handsome man, a kind man, a man who had sprung up from the same dirt that gave her life, a man who had suffered, as had she, and changed for it.  _Yes,_ she wanted him, and so she gave him the only instruction she could.

Jean leaned forward in his arms, and brushed her lips against the corded muscles of his neck. "Please, Lucien," she breathed. " _Please."_

At those words Lucien began the slow, deliberate journey towards her bedroom. He did not stumble, did not quake, had no need to ask for direction as the flat was tiny, and the bedroom door ajar. So sure and so steady were his steps that Jean felt rather as if she were floating, borne aloft on a wings of peace and understanding. Perhaps it was all too fast, perhaps they did not know one another as well as they could have, as they should have, but Jean knew enough, and she gave herself over to him utterly.

In a moment they were in her room, and Lucien was gently laying her out across the faded duvet, holding her tight until her back made contact with the mattress and she drifted down amongst her own pillows. He straightened, towering over her for a moment like some ancient god, his eyes full of wonder, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips, all but hidden beneath his beard. There was no time for Jean to worry, about how he might respond to her once she was revealed to him, about how he might treat her, now that he had her in bed, about what might happen once this moment of madness - this  _folie à deux -_ had passed and they were left alone with the truth of themselves once more. There was no time, for Lucien, still standing at the foot of her bed, watching her as she nestled down upon the sagging mattress, had with his broad hands reached out and delicately caught hold of her foot. With a gentle sort of single-mindedness he set about removing first one shoe, and then the other, and then, oh then the breath vanished from Jean's lungs and stars danced in the corners of her eyes as he slid his hands along the slope of her legs, tracing the outline of her calves and her trembling thighs, intent on relieving her of her stockings. This thing between them had only just begun, and already she craved him, more of him, all of him,  _now,_ felt the way his fingers brushed featherlight against her skin and quivered at the thought of him touching her in more intimate places. It seemed that Lucien was in no hurry, regardless of the fact that Jean felt herself on the verge of falling apart completely.

When her stockings were gone his hands once more traced the path of her legs, though this time his lips followed the trail that his fingertips had blazed, dropping gentle suckling kisses at the back of her knees, the inside of her thighs, and a sharp gasp escaped her as his hands continued across her body until he was once more kneading the firm flesh of her bum, though this time his hands had found their way beneath her skirt. All thought had fled, and all that remained was him, the way he knelt over her, the warm wash of his breath along her inner thigh, the heat in his eyes as he watched her over the shallow rise of her body, bowing up in silent capitulation to his touch, to the need he had inspired in her. His hands moved again, grappled with unseen clasps and ties, his teeth sinking into her tender skin as punishment for her impertinent laugh at his fumbling, the sting of it sending another wave of desire flooding through her. It had been so long, so long, since last Jean had laughed, and longer still since she had felt this safe, this protected, this desirable, and all of it together was almost more than she could bear. Blindly her hands sought him out, as he deftly pulled her undergarments off and away before one more ducking his head beneath her skirt. Fleetingly her fingers brushed through his hair, soft and gentle, and then she felt the flat of his tongue in a most unexpected place and could not stop the soft mewling sound of need that left her at the sensation.

To her disappointment Lucien rose to his feet at the sound of her voice, and while she worried for a moment that whatever he had seen while he lay there with his face buried beneath her skirt had put him off the whole idea altogether she was immediately reassured as she watched him reach for his own belt buckle, a fire and a possessiveness in his eyes that told her at once exactly what it was he wanted from her. As he stood there at the end of her bed, watching her so hungrily, every certain, deliberate movement of his hands pushing them closer and closer to the moment when at last they would achieve their bliss together, a tremor ran through her. His belt hit the floor and his fingers turned to the buttons of his waistcoat, and Jean decided then that if he were going to put her through the delicious of torture of having to watch him slowly bared to her while her hands were not pressed tight to his skin then she would happily return the favor, and so turned her attentions to the buttons of her own blouse.

The room was silent, save for the sound of Lucien's ragged breathing, the tempo of which changed significantly the moment Jean's fingers began to work on her buttons. His Adam's apple bobbed once, slowly, the vein in the side of his neck thick and throbbing with want of her, blue eyes wide and watchful and refusing to blink, not wanting to miss a single moment. To her mind Jean was somewhat at a disadvantage, given that he had already divested her of several of her layers, and she knew that she would be bare before he, but still she did not stop. Carefully she shrugged out of her blouse and tossed it to the side, sitting up just long enough to unclasp her bra and throw it away as well. Lucien's shirt hit the floor beside hers, his eyes glued to the rise of her chest, the soft swell of her breast, the sharp points of her ribcage, too visible now after too many years with not enough food and too much fear. Jean would much rather stare at him, his broad shoulders, the line of his pectorals, the soft blonde hair trailing down from the center of his chest to vanish beneath the waistband of his trousers. There were scars marring his golden skin, new scars, thick scars, and she knew that surely he would have more in places she had not yet seen, that the time he had spent at the hands of the Japanese would have marked his skin as indelibly as it marked his soul, but Jean did not mind, so very much; those scars meant that,no matter the torment he had endured, he still survived, that he had lived long enough to join her in this place, that when he saw the little silver scars Jean carried herself he would understand them, and he would not loathe her for them.

Jean lifted her hips to shimmy out of her skirt, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and closing her eyes, not wanting to watch him as at last she bared herself to him in full, not trusting her traitorous heart to hold firm when he looked his fill at her, naked and vulnerable in her lumpy bed in this chilly little flat. But then his warms hands were ghosting over the too-sharp points of her hipbones, palms cradling her gently, fingers spanning her waist, holding her like she was precious, like she was  _his,_ and Jean could not hold firm a moment longer. Her eyes flew open, and she saw him leaning over her, naked and glorious with his thickly musceled arms, arms built to hold her, to shelter her from the cruelty of the world beyond, and before she could duck her gaze and take in the sight of the prize that awaited her his lips had found hers once more, and she could do no more than close her eyes and sigh her pleasure. Whatever he saw when he looked at her the tenderness of his touch and the brush of his hardness against her leg as he moved over her told her that he was pleased with her, and she would be content with this.

But Lucien would not content himself with just this sweet caress, however. In a moment the hands still wrapped around her hips tightened their hold, and he was dragging her towards the end of the bed. In a movement that was shockingly graceful, for a man so broad and tall and strong, he sank to his knees before her even as he lifted her left leg to drape over his shoulder. With his palm flat against her right thigh he opened her to him fully, his face on a level with her dripping sex, and a tremor passed from her shoulders to the tips of her toes at the thought of being so open to him, so utterly at his mercy. Jean hardly knew this man, but the way he touched her, the way he had spoken to her, the softness in his eyes gave her cause to hope, to trust him, to deliver herself into his hands. Lucien bowed his head and her fingers curled in his soft blonde hair, and then the flat of his tongue was tracing the shape of her folds and her head snapped back, eyes screwed shut as a desperate little whimper escaped her.

It was a heady sensation, Lucien kneeling between her thighs, her heel drumming against the scarred terrain of his back, one of his hands curled tight around her thigh, fingers pressing, claiming, wanting, while that warm wet tongue stroked her, uncovered her every secret and drew from her lips a steady chant of  _please, oh please._ The tension coiled and twisted low in her belly, the leg draped over his shoulder tightening its grip, long forgotten muscles coming into play, eagerly clutching at him, her hips bucking up towards him, the rough scrape of his beard against her tender folds and the expert swirl of his tongue against the bundle of nerves at her center pushing her ever higher. He bent to his task with a will, building her up and up, tasting her, delighting in her, redoubling his efforts each time she cried out. Though his left hand remained anchored to her right thigh, holding her open for him, his right rose up, fingers dancing through the soaking curls at her center until at last he plunged one inside her, curling up hard against her, eager and searching. It was all too much, the insistence of his tongue, the damning press of that one thick finger revealing her for the wanton creature that she was; Jean's hands rose up, curling around the wrought iron bars of her bedframe, using that grip for leverage as she bore down against him, her harsh, panting breaths filling the room. Beneath his touch her body arched as she became a creature entirely of his making, given over to nothing but the pleasure he promised her as he continued to ravish her and at last she broke beneath him, hardly recognizing the sound that left her, her whole body singing.

* * *

For a time Lucien remained right where he was, his finger locked tight within her quivering heat, his lips and tongue stroking against her gently, bringing her down from her high while her leg held him in close, a small bruise forming on his back where her heel had borne down against him. He did not begrudge her that minor discomfort, rather choosing to delight in the fact that for the first time in years his body would bear a mark left by pleasure rather than hate. She was a thing of beauty, was Jean, lithe and lean and graceful, every line and every curve of her begging for the touch of his lips, her skin soft and smooth and pale beneath his fingertips. He wanted to paint the canvas of that skin with love, with hope, with the sweat that formed between them; he turned his head and smeared her inner thigh with the wetness that coated his lips and cheeks, his heart soaring at the sound of her gentle laughter.

When Jean had taken him by the hand and led him back to this place he had been certain for a moment that he was dreaming, certain that something as beautiful, as precious as the gossamer thread of longing they had cultivated between them was too fragile, too pure to exist in a world as dark as theirs. The taste of her against his tongue, the sound of her delirious moans echoing in his ear had banished that notion, had convinced him that he was still awake and living, had given him the motivation to see this thing through to its conclusion, to cement the tenuous bond between them. Lucien did not know how long he would be in Paris, did not know how many other opportunities he might be granted to lie in the cradle of her thighs, but he would take this one and make the most of it, would do everything he could to make her laugh, make her smile, make her come undone, to make her feel, as he did, that perhaps there was still cause to hope in this world that had ground them down beneath its bootheels and left them far behind.

It was mindboggling, really, that they had found each other, and though he was not ordinarily one to give himself over to superstition he could not help but feel that his having discovered her was a blessing, and that to squander it for the sake of propriety or guilt or grief would be an affront to the very universe. Some power he could not fathom had put this woman in his path, and already he felt as if he had known her all his life, as if his soul were inextricably linked to hers. Jean's fingers were ghosting through his hair, her touch gentle and reverent as a prayer, and he sighed beneath her hand, pressing one last kiss to the line of her folds before rising to his feet again. She was a vision, laid out before him, and it occurred to him that there was still very much of her left unexplored.

Slowly, ever so slowly he stretched himself out along her body, lips dragging against the softness of her belly, the hardness of her ribs, until at last he could trace the swell of one small breast with his tongue. Beneath him Jean shifted and sighed in bliss; her legs lifted up to lock around his waist, his toes still pressed against the floor as he hung halfway off the bed, delighting in the way her hands traced the slope of his back. Her fingers caught against the ridge of his scars, still somewhat sensitive even now, more than a year since the last time the lash had seared his flesh, but though he shivered he did not pull away. That touch was a blessing, a benediction, the balm of holy water exorcising the demons that haunted him, Jean herself an angel come to save him. He could taste the tang of sweat beneath the curve of her breast, could feel her delighted hum vibrating through his chest when he wrapped his lips around one pebbled pink nipple, and he could not stop the endless press of his hips, driving towards her, his own urgent need over taking everything else.

This position was not ideal for what he had in mind, but before he could catch hold of her and move her where he wanted Jean's delicate hands wrapped around the taut muscles of his shoulders, her nails pressing leaving soft silver half-moon indentations against his skin as she tried to catch his attention. Lucien lifted his head from her breast, smiling at her, at the flush in her cheeks and the way her full lips parted, gasping for breath.

"Come here, Lucien," she said, the melody of her soft voice forming quite the most beautiful song he had ever heard. They shifted together, huffing and laughing as they each seemed to have a different idea of what Jean had meant by  _here,_ until at last at her insistence Lucien found himself sitting upright with Jean perched atop his lap, his hardness caught between their bellies, her thighs pressed close to his sides.

"That's better," she breathed in satisfaction, both her arms snaking over his shoulders, curling at the back of his head and drawing him in close for a searing kiss. It seemed to Lucien that in that moment he was closer to Jean than he had ever been to anyone else in his entire life, the heat between them searing them, melting them down until together they formed a new body entirely, two souls knit together into one stronger than they had ever been on their own. Her fingertips traced the outline of his ear and her tongue swept across his lips and the sheer damning heat of her ground against the base of his shaft and in that moment he was nearly overtaken by madness, desire welling up within him so strong and so fierce that all conscious thought was swept away by it, by her.

He could not wait another moment longer, and it seemed that Jean felt the same, for she used her hold on him to leverage herself up as he took his hardness in hand, dragged the tip of his rock hard length against her soft wet folds, drank the sound of her eager murmur from her lips and braced himself for what was to come. Slowly, so slowly he thought he might die before it was through Jean lowered herself atop him, and he felt her stretch around him, felt the sting of her teeth sinking into his bottom lip, felt the way she shivered in his embrace like a racehorse at the starting gate, yearning for freedom. She was exquisite, was paradise realized, was so glorious that he nearly wept as together they brought her down onto him, lower and lower until he was fully sheathed within her, wrapped up in her in every possible way. Once he was fully seated his hands moved, one sliding up the slope of her back to curl over her shoulder, holding her against him, while the other snaked between the tight press of their chests, his palm molding to the curve of her breast, feeling the pounding of her heart beneath her skin.

For a moment she was still, gasping, her forehead pressed to his own, her eyes so close, so clear, her pupils blown wide with desire and fixed firmly on his face. He felt as if he could see into her very soul, and the vision that was revealed to him then was that of a goddess, an angel, transcendent and glorious. Jean gave one tentative thrust of her hips, and he was lost.

In that place, sheltered amongst the tangled sheets with the snow still falling beyond the frosted window, the world all in stillness and rapture, they thrust and ground together, and as the heat between them grew, as she rose up and sunk down upon him again and again, as he used the hand still curled tight around her shoulder to draw her down hard against him, as he tensed his muscles beneath her and sought to give her whatever aid she needed to tumble from the edge, he felt, for the first time in recent memory, nothing but joy. The soft sound of her gasps, the wet sounds of their union, the scrape of her nails against his scalp, the fire in her eyes; nothing he had ever seen or experienced was as tender, as beautiful, as rapturous as this steady, sinuous dance. They moved in a rhythm all their own, point and counterpoint, soft lilting sighs and heady whimpers their only accompaniment in that place. Still they climbed, higher and higher, and Lucien felt himself sinking deeper and deeper within her, the connection between them only growing in strength and certainty. She was a marvel, was Jean, her tight inner walls clenching and fluttering around him, the note of her voice taking on a desperate plea.

Once more he kissed her, because he could, because she was there, and then smoothly he turned them, never leaving the shelter of the warm wet place between her thighs. Her legs, strong and powerful and graceful beyond all understanding, wrapped tight around his lower back, holding him to her as he began to plunge into her in earnest.

"Oh,  _god,"_ she cried once, a ragged, needy sound, and then her hands abandoned his shoulders, rising up above her head so that her thin fingers could wrap around the bars of her bedframe. There was a beauty, a serenity in her capitulation, in the way she had so utterly given herself over to him, the arch of her back pressing her breasts hard to his chest, the elegant curve of her neck left open for his exploration, her legs holding him so fiercely, and Lucien felt an almost animal need to claim her over take him.

Without thought his hands curled around her thighs, pressed against the tight line of her muscles to spread her wide for him, and she went with him willingly, years of training her body having made her both pliant and strong. He raised himself up and slammed against her, harder, and harder still, each powerful thrust of his ips drawing a ragged cry from her lips. The storm was building low in his belly, fury and intensity roiling within his very soul, as again and again he claimed her, her body open and utterly  _his_ in that moment, ready and willing to give him whatever he would ask of her, to follow him wherever he led. His whole body was shaking with the effort, but still he moved, again, and again, sliding into her, feeling her gripping him so tightly his eyes nearly watered.

The moment of his own release was coming, and so he lowered his head, dragged his tongue along the slope of her neck.

" _Now,_ Jean," he begged her, desperate to bring her to pleasure before he found his own, and though her body was tight and tense beneath him, though she was shaking, though her knuckles had gone white where she gripped the bed for dear life, she did not seem quite ready to follow his command. Not until his teeth replaced his tongue against her racing pulse, and with one final surge of his hips, the thickness of his shaft delving so deep within her folds that he shattered her utterly. Her cry was that of some wild bird, her whole body quivering, trembling, her sex clutching him so tightly that he could not withdraw, could only grind against her until at last the stars exploded behind his eyes and he spilled himself inside her.

* * *

Jean lay sprawled across his chest, idly tracing the curve of his bottom lip with her thumb, watching the fluttering of his eyelashes in response, her body rising and falling in time to his steady breaths. The release that had crashed over them left them both aching and sated, every inch of her body seeming to sigh his name every time she moved, which she did but little, soaking in the warmth of him. Though he had eventually - regretfully - withdrawn from her she fancied she could still feel him inside of her, could feel every place he'd touched her. He had shaken her to her very core, had stripped her down to her foundations and rebuilt her anew in a way that no other man had ever done before. The days of religion and the stained glass churches that had composed her childhood were long behind her, but in that moment she felt a sense of peace that she recalled from kneeling in those blissfully silent cathedrals, bathed in the light of candles and incense and prayers. It had been a long time since Jean had knelt beside her bed with a rosary in hand, but she sent up a prayer of thanksgiving in that moment, so grateful was she to have discovered this man, to have been given the chance to - however - briefly - hold him tight.

"Jean," he mumurred her name, his hand smoothing over the riot of her sweat-slicked hair, "I have to tell you."

She hummed, encouraging him to continue with a gentle kiss pressed against his collarbone.

"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," he told her reverently.

It would not do to challenge him, to point out that she was hardly as lovely now as she had been in her youth, to tell him that he should have seen her seven years ago, before the Germans, before Christopher's death, when she had been the  _prima ballerina_  and the very world seemed to kneel at her feet in homage to her. It would not do to tell him that he had missed the height of her glory, that she had once been stronger, smoother, more glorious than he could ever imagine now. It would not do, for when he spoke those words, for just a moment, she believed him.

"You're lovely," she said instead, by way of thanks. His hands splayed across her back and she shivered, thinking how those strong hands, so much bigger than her own, could so easily break her, and yet he had chosen to use them only for her pleasure.

"I don't know what's going to happen next," he told her, his voice hardly more than a whisper, breathing life into the one thought she had tried so hard to banish. Jean buried her face in the crook of his neck and tried not to cry, tried not to give into the hopelessness that filled her as the reality of their impermanence once more reared its head. "But if you will have me," he continued, and the breath vanished from her lungs, her whole being hanging frozen in that instant as she waited to see how he intended to finish that thought. "Then I will be yours, always. "I have given my life in service to my country, but I think I would much rather live out my days in service to you, my darling."

Above him Jean shifted, planting her hands on the mattress and lifting herself up just far enough to look him in the eye. He was serious, she could see that now; after one day and one tumble in the sheets he was completely and wholly serious about this commitment he intended to make to her. For a moment she simply watched him, this glorious, devastating man, thinking on all that she had learned about him this day, how very much there still was for her to discover, thinking how her body sang for him, how her soul rejoiced in the warmth of him.

"Let's see what happens, Lucien," she said at last. Jean reached out one trembling hand and cradled his cheek in her palm. "Stay with me, and let's take things as they come."

It was the most that she could give him. Her heart had been so completely shattered, all sense of hope and purpose stripped from her, and she was not sure that she possessed the strength to dive once more into the torment of love. She was not sure of anything, except that in this moment she did not want him to leave her.

Beneath her Lucien smiled once, a knowing, acknowledging sort of smile. He turned his head and pressed against her palm and then drew her back down to him, and then they both closed their eyes, and drifted off into dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

_4 January 1947_

Derek came bursting in the room with no warning, calling out his name as the door slammed against the wall behind him, a chill wind following after. There was no time for Lucien and his companion to compose themselves; one moment they had been lying together tangled in the blankets in his rented bedsit, naked and blissful, and the next Jean had yelped and dived beneath the coverlet, leaving Lucien with his chest bare and his heart pounding feverishly.

"Lucien!" Derek called, skidding to a halt at the foot of the bed with his mouth hanging comically open, his eyes wide and conveying his shock at having discovered his friend abed with some strange woman. Derek's gaze traveled to the lump that was Jean cowering out of sight and then to Lucien's face and back again so quickly it made Lucien a bit dizzy.

"Er," Derek said.

"Major Alderton," Lucien proclaimed grandly, feeling a bit smug about the whole thing, truth be told. He folded his arms behind his head and rested against the bedframe, watching his old friend struggling to find the words to smooth over this uncomfortable moment. It was not often that Derek Alderton was left speechless; true, he was not as loquacious as Lucien himself but he always seemed to know just what was proper, what was needed. Derek was also not a man much given to smiles and frivolity, and as Lucien watched his mouth turned down in the ghost of a frown, as disapproving as a schoolmarm.

Though it was dangerous, for both of them, for Lucien to continue to see Jean he found that after his first taste of her he simply could not stay away. She was lovely, and soft, and kind, and the more he spoke to her the more he craved the sweet sound of her voice. It was not quite two weeks since the morning they first met, but Lucien had spent every one of the intervening nights with her, in her flat, in his bed, wherever she fancied, wherever time and mood took them. Oh, he was still a spy, and guarded his steps carefully, but no one had trailed after him, and for now he believed that they were safe. Safe enough for this, to find respite and comfort together. Likely Derek would disagree, but Lucien was still riding high on the wave of pleasure that had washed over him as he lay nestled inside his Jean, and he was not inclined to worry about what his friend might have to say.

"Lucien," Derek said, a note of warning in his voice. Beneath the blankets Jean's delicate fingers found the curve of his side and pinched him once, hard. The message was clear and so, grumbling, Lucien held the blankets in place to cover his modesty as he leaned down and caught up his trousers with his free hand.

"Wait for me out there, will you?" Lucien asked. The bedsit consisted of two ridiculously small rooms, the outer room containing a chair and a little desk, the inner bosting only this old bed and a somewhat lopsided wardrobe. Derek turned on his heel like any good shoulder and retreated to the sitting area, leaving Lucien alone with his lady love for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Lucien whispered, and at the sound of his voice Jean's head peeked out from beneath the blankets. Her face was beet-red and her eyes were flashing.

"Is everything all right?" she whispered back, her voice strained and betraying her dismay at having been discovered in such a compromising position, though she tried her best to cover it with concern for him.

"We'll see," Lucien answered. He kissed her forehead and rolled out of bed, tugging on his trousers. He did not bother with a shirt, choosing instead to march right out of the room, closing the door behind him with a snap to protect Jean's modesty. In the sitting room Derek was pacing, a piece of paper clutched tight in his hands.

"Really, Lucien," Derek hissed, but Lucien dismissed his admonition with a wave of his hand.

"What is it?" he asked instead, reaching for the paper his friend carried. Without complaint Derek handed it over, and Lucien read it hungrily. By the time he reached the bottom of the page he had collapsed wordlessly into the empty chair, his knees too weak to hold him.

"Good god," he breathed.

"I have taken the liberty of making arrangements," Derek answered him tersely. "We've talked about this Lucien, and if you still mean what you said, I can have your discharge papers drawn up within an hour, and there's a plane leaving for Shanghai on Monday morning. You could be holding your little girl by Tuesday."

Lucien's hands were shaking so badly he dropped the page, watching it float soundlessly to the floor. Yes, they had discussed it more times than he could count, what he would do if word reached him that Li still lived. The plan had been in place from the moment he first learned of his wife's demise, learned that there was a chance Li was still out there, somewhere. He would resign his commission, he would go to her at once, and then he would take her home to Australia, would set up practice in Sydney or Melbourne or some other city, and do his best to build a life for her. And Derek, knowing full what that dream of a future meant to him, had already set the ball in motion.

Only as he thought about it now, he could not picture taking Li back to Australia. Now, when he thought about himself stepping off a plane with his daughter's hand tucked securely in his own, he thought only of Paris, thought of the sparkling lights, the steady reconstruction, the radiant light of Jean's face. He thought of the money he had put aside, and the opera house down by the river, and of quiet meals eaten together. Yes, he wanted to leave the service behind so that he would be safe and available to his daughter, to look after her, to tend to her needs, and yes he wanted to go to her as soon as possible, and  _yes,_ he wanted to bring her home. It was just that his notion of home had changed.

"I would like to resign," he said in an unsteady voice. "Immediately."

"Come down to headquarters, once you get yourself sorted," Derek told him. "Everything will be waiting for you. Should I arrange to have your things delivered to your father?"

"No," Lucien answered at once. "I'm bringing her back to Paris."

Derek looked around the cramped quarters for a moment with an incredulous expression.

"Lucien," he began slowly, and before he could finish that thought already Lucien could hear the rest of his words echoing in his own mind.  _You can't possibly bring her here._

"I won't," he said aloud. "I'll sort something out."

"All right, then," Derek agreed. As Lucien rose to his feet they shook hands, both of them trying very hard not to weep, to give in to the emotion of the moment. They had gone through hell together, and Derek had known Li from the time she was born; he understood the gravity of the moment, what it meant to Lucien to know that his child was alive, and that soon he would once more hold her in his arms.

"I'm happy for you, Lucien," Derek said gruffly.

Lucien did not trust himself to speak, and so he only nodded, showing Derek out of the little flat before closing the door. For a moment he leaned against it, shaking like a frightened stag;  _she's alive, she's alive, she's alive,_ he thought in wonder.

"Lucien?" Jean called from the bedroom, her voice tentative and somewhat scared.

Still hardly believing that any of this was real Lucien and turned and made his way to her, his thoughts a jumbled mess he knew only she could untangle.

* * *

_13 March 1947_

They were lying together on the sofa in Lucien's little flat. Jean had found this place, while he'd been in Shanghai, had used the money he'd given her to secure it for him so that when he returned to Paris with Li on his arm his child would have a room of her very own in which to sleep. Not that she had slept there, in the beginning; the first two weeks she was in Paris Li had slept in her father's bed, terrified of everyone and everything around her, except for him. She was only eight, and the city of Paris was unlike anything she had seen since the day her ship had sailed away from Singapore five years before. Jean had been a godsend to him - to them both - in those early days, speaking softly to Li in that gentle voice of hers, reassuring Lucien's daughter at every turn, and bolstering his own flagging reserves when the stress of finding himself suddenly a parent once more left him at his wit's end. Though they were unable to steal as much time alone as they might have liked, Jean seemed to enjoy Li's company, and never once complained.

On this particular evening they had been listening to some program on the wireless, though Li had long since fallen asleep. The little girl lay nestled in Jean's arms, while Jean herself was tucked into the curve of Lucien's shoulder, his hand trailing gently along the length of her arm. The world was still and peaceful, and as Lucien looked down at them, his beautiful daughter, the bright, brilliant woman who held her, these two girls who were the very center of his whole world, he suddenly realized what it meant to be content.

"Jean?" he said softly.

She hummed, tilting her head back so that those clear grey eyes could watch his face, and in that moment she was so lovely to him, so radiant, so utterly perfect in every imaginable way, that he could not stop the words that spilled out of his mouth.

"Marry me," he said.

* * *

_30 May 1947_

"I don't know, Lucien," Jean said slowly as they walked together along the musty carpet. "There's so much that needs to be done."

Around them the opera house seemed to whisper and sigh with every step they took, full of a lonesome, longing sort of hope. This place had been everything to Jean once, he knew, and as he walked along, as he took in the sight of the damaged walls and the faded paintings and the scurry of mice in the corners, he almost fancied he could see it as it had been, before, as it ought to be again. There was a gold ring glittering on Jean's left hand, Li had been enrolled in school, and Lucien had set up shop as a physician, taking on a few new patients and trying his hand at being an ordinary citizen. It felt right, felt like the first steps towards building a proper life for himself and his family, but something was missing. Jean was not content in her lot as a housekeeper, and Lucien wanted more for her. He wanted to give her the world, wanted to do anything to see her smile again, to know that she was as blissfully happy as she had made him.

When they reached the stage Lucien clambered up first and then held out his hand, helping Jean as she came to stand beside him, staring out across the grand audience hall. This was her place, the place where he had first stumbled across her, the place where she was most truly herself, the place where all her dreams resided.

"Think about it, Jean," he whispered, standing behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist and his chin resting against her shoulder. "We could fix it up together, you and I. Think of the music, the people, the lights. We can do this."

Jean covered his hands with her own, holding him close to her, even as she sighed.

It would be difficult, he knew. There was so much work to be done he hardly knew where to start. But he had money saved up, and money coming in from his new patients, and if they needed more it would be easy enough to secure a loan, with a building as fine as this one for collateral. The city was rebuilding, and the mood of the people was one of determined perseverance; Christian Dior had revealed his  _New Look_  collection in February, reminding the world of the beauty and resilience of the Parisian spirit, and Lucien knew that there would be more than enough interest in the sorts of entertainment and artistry the opera house could provide.

"Can you see it, my darling?" Lucien whispered, pressing his lips against the curve of her neck. Softly, slowly, he began to sway with Jean in his arms, as if in answer to some far off song. For a moment she indulged him, but then she turned to him, all grace and breathless wonder, winding her arms around his neck.

"Yes," she answered, and before she could speak another word Lucien drew her closer still, and kissed her soundly.

* * *

_24 December 1947_

Lucien watched, delighted, as his wife swept across the empty stage, resplendent in her fine black dress, the turn of her body revealing the swell of her belly, large with child. If anyone thought it strange, how quickly they had wed, how quickly Jean had fallen pregnant, no such whispers had reached his ears; Paris was a fine city, and big enough for two lonely expats to lose themselves amongst its glory. From the moment his eyes first beheld her Lucien had loved her with all his heart, and each day he spent by her side only endeared her more to him. Hardship and deprivation had made her practical, but the heart of a romantic beat within her chest, and she filled every room she entered with love and beauty, with songs and flowers and the gentle scent of baking bread.

Their dream of rebuilding the opera house together had been a great success; over the winter season they had hosted several fine shows to the delight of the local patrons, and had in fact this Christmas Eve just completed a performance of Handel's  _Messiah,_ Jean having chosen that work out of deference to her own Catholic upbringing. The audience had departed, however, and the opera house was still, and Li stood clinging to her father's hand there in the wings, looking out across the grand stage with an expression of longing upon her face.

"Can I, Papa?" she asked him, her dark eyes huge and round and full of wonder.

"Of course, my darling," Lucien said, smiling at her fondly, and so hand in hand they made their way out to Jean there on the stage.

At their approach Jean smiled, and held out her hand so that Li might take it, all three of them standing there together, Lucien and Jean linked by the little girl who stood between them.

"It's beautiful,  _maman,"_  Li breathed in delight. She had only been three when her mother died, and so many years had passed that Lucien knew his daughter had few memories of her own mother. In Mei Lin's absence Jean had done an admirable job, loved Li as fiercely and devotedly as if she were her own child, and it warmed his heart, to hear Li call her  _maman._

"It is,  _cherie,"_ Jean agreed, smiling. "Come," she said, and gently she led Li away from Lucien, to the very center of the stage, and slowly they began to twirl together, Li laughing delightedly, Jean smiling so beautifically, practically glowing with joy and her impending motherhood, that Lucien felt the breath catch in his lungs at the sight of them. It had been a long hard road to lead them to this point, a road fraught with grief before he first met Jean and beset by struggles afterward, but they had made it, somehow. They had through hard work and tears lovingly rebuilt this palace of beauty, had replaced the tattered curtain and the shattered glass and the rotted carpets, and repainted the walls and laid new boards for the stage, had collected around them a bevy of singers and dancers and musicians, and they had between them breathed new life into this dream. Somehow, Lucien and Jean had both survived calamity, had emerged through fire and horror to find one another, and there was no greater present he could have received that Christmas than the vision that danced before him, his wife and his child and this dream they had built together in this glittering city by the Seine.


End file.
